


consequential

by slambam



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Confrontation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Trans Dick Simmons, season 15 spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-05 19:58:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11020494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slambam/pseuds/slambam
Summary: “Look, that's not - that’s not important right now, Grif! I came back, because I - ” Simmons said, a stupid look on his face. Proud, like he thinks he’s so fucking clever. Sogoodto come back here. Whatever look Grif had on his face made Simmons pause, his resolve shaken, but he continued, standing as Grif rounded the table and walked back towards the hallway to the showers.“Listen, Grif, do you… not like us. Me. Did you mean it?” He repeated, voice going squeaky, just slightly.





	1. dead weight

**Author's Note:**

> hello all - this will be coming in three parts, and i'll be posting the next two chapters that will have more resolution and closure as they are written - i'm not going to leave you hanging on this note.
> 
> big thanks to freysgalli, sabishiita, and unshoddenshipper for being my beta readers! thank you for reading, and i hope you enjoy.

“H-hey, Grif.” 

 

It had been almost two weeks, and there wasn't supposed to be anyone on this moon anymore, much less Simmons, in this room, watching Grif walk back into the empty base. He was sitting at their makeshift table, one elbow resting next to his helmet, curls of hair loose from his ponytail tucked behind his ear. His eyes were bright and locked on Grif, the corners of his mouth upturned just slightly as he waited for a response. Grif stared, fingers tightening around his helmet as his brain struggled to process Simmons, back here, after everything - and then hot anger welled up inside his chest and he dropped his helmet to one hand at his side, eyes narrowing.

 

“You should tell them to pick you up,” He muttered, voice low and sharp as he started to walk past Simmons, back into the base. “They can’t stay in orbit forever. Alpha awaits.”

 

“I - I came by myself.”  

 

Grif looked up, pausing. By himself…? Fucking whatever. He snorted, shaking his head. “You can't fly a - fuck it, you know what? It doesn’t matter. Get your ass back in it and get out of here.”

 

Simmons shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Grif’s scrutinizing gaze as the pieces fell into place. 

 

“... you… you crashed it. Oh, my  _ god _ \- ” 

 

“Look, that's not - that’s not important right now, Grif! I came back, because I - ” Simmons said, a stupid look on his face. Proud, like he thinks he’s so fucking clever. So  _ good  _ to come back here. Whatever look Grif had on his face made Simmons pause, his resolve shaken, but he continued, standing as Grif rounded the table and walked back towards the hallway to the showers.

 

“Listen, Grif, do you… not like us. Me. Did you mean it?” He repeated, voice going squeaky, just slightly. Grif paused, sighed. Rolled his eyes before turning back around to look at Simmons.

 

“What if I said yes, and your dumb ass was trapped here with me until we die?” 

 

“I don’t know. I’d go back to the - to the waterpark or… or something.” Simmons faltered slightly, but pressed on, determined. “Did you mean it, Dexter?”

 

_ Dexter.  _ Grif’s insides twisted themselves into sick, tight knots, and he tried to keep his face from doing the same as Simmons stood there, expectantly, waiting for his easy answer.  The silence hung between them for a few more moments before Grif shook his head, slamming his helmet down on the table. 

 

“Did I  _ mean  _ it - I - you know what, yeah. I did mean it,  _ Richard, _ and you wanna know why?” He spat, breath shaking. “You - you didn’t say  _ anything.  _ Didn’t - didn't come looking for me, didn't stop to think I might have an opinion about this, didn't stop Tucker from running his fucking mouth. And  _ you -  _ ‘ _ probably eating _ .’ Jesus fucking Christ. I thought you were done with that shit _ ,  _ but you just had to look like a big man in front of your friends and - and that fucking reporter, didn't you?” 

 

Simmons’s face fell and he swallowed hard, looking as though he wanted to say something, but Grif didn't give him the chance. 

 

“God, we were done!” Grif’s voice cracked, brows furrowing. “We were finally fucking done! You told me we’d do this together and I  _ believed  _ you! But you were - you were ready to go, to go chase some fucking ghost - ”

 

“That’s not true, Grif - he’s not a ghost, he’s - he’s our friend!” Simmons kept his eyes down, away from Grif’s. “We couldn’t just leave him - ”

 

“Stop - stop with this ‘we.’ This isn't about  _ them -  _ the fucking - the fucking  _ reds _ and  _ blues,  _ what a  _ fucking  _ joke -  _ you _ bailed, and then  _ you _ came back to get your answer. This is about you, and me. Don't fucking try to dodge that.” Grif snapped. “The Blues can pretend all they want. But that’s not Church. It’ll never be  _ him _ .”

 

“You don’t know that. It - it could be,” Simmons said, with no real conviction in his voice. 

 

Grif shot Simmons a look, and Simmons’ eyes flickered back downwards. Grif scoffed. 

 

“Yeah, sure.” He half-laughed, bitterly. “ _ I _ could be too, if we’re guessing. Why not? Maybe then you’d all give half a fuck about me.”

 

Simmons didn’t answer, mouth hanging slightly open as he tried to find words. Grif shook his head again, swallowing hard.

 

“You know what? This is my own fault _.  _ I should have known this retirement shit wouldn’t last. Nothing ever  _ fucking does  _ with you people. Son of a  _ bitch, _ fifteen  _ fucking _ years of this bullshit, almost half my fucking life - ” Grif faltered, shaking his head, barely noticed that he’d started to pace. “I was so  _ stupid _ \- I thought, maybe, you’d remember all that shit you said on Chorus, or was that just the temple talking? Or - or!! Was it just to get me to  _ fucking  _ shut up about settling down and get back to what you actually want me for?” 

 

Simmons stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and Grif’s chest tightened as his mouth twisted into a bitter, contemptuous smile. 

 

“Yeah. Don’t mind my  _ fat ass _ so much when it’s got your nails dug into it, do you? You sure do like me a lot better behind closed doors with my fucking pants down.” Grif sneered, trying to keep the shake from his voice. 

 

“It’s not - Jesus  _ Christ _ , Grif! It’s not like that - ”

 

“Then what’s it like, Simmons?” Grif’s heart twisted at the look on Simmons’s face, but where he might have choked on his words he only continued, louder. “I thought you wanted to _be_ something. I thought you wanted to - I thought this was gonna be different, here, but it’s all the same Blood Gulch bullshit. And - and - ”

 

“What do you mean  _ be  _ something?” Simmons’ voice was sharp, pitched as he gripped the edge of the table. “We  _ are  _ something, we’ve been something for - for years! I don’t - why would this change that, Grif? We’re the same people, and - ”

 

“You don’t understand.”

 

“You’re  _ right!”  _

 

Grif looked at him, and Simmons looked right back, flushed and tense, quivering. 

 

“I  _ don’t _ understand, Grif. Because you never - you never told me! About any of this!” He took a deep, shaking breath. “This retirement was - this was never going to be exactly what you wanted, but do you think I would have just bailed if I knew how much it meant to you?” 

 

Grif lowered his eyes, exhaling, and shook his head. “Don’t fucking start, don’t - ”

 

“I hurt you. I understand that, and it - fucking - I hate that. I hate it, because I love you, Grif. You - you want to believe nobody gives a fuck about you, because maybe that makes it easier? But I care, and you know that.” Simmons paused, then continued, louder, as Grif shook his head again. “You  _ know  _ that, Grif. And you always do this - this self-sacrificing thing, and you don’t  _ have to,  _ Grif, not with - ”

 

“Not this time. This time, I did what I wanted. I did this for _me_. And for the record, if you love me so damn much, you've got a funny fucking way of showing it. When you love somebody, you don’t throw them under the bus every chance you get, you don’t call them a - a lazy fatass at every opportunity, you - ” The exhaustion seeps through, the bitterness of more than a decade, and he doesn’t try to stop it. “Fuck it. Some hologram - that’s probably a trap, by the way - is more important to you than I am. So sure. Just keep believing that I’m like you always say: lazy, fat and - and fucking _selfish_.”

 

He let that hang for a moment, brows furrowed, jaw tight, then continued, meeting Simmons’ eyes. “Honestly, I did you a favor. You can finally get shit done without all the  _ dead weight. _ ”

 

Simmons didn't reply, and when Grif looked up at him, he looked as though he’d been struck, eyes wide, face flushed, chest rising and falling in short, unsteady breaths under the tactical skin of his undersuit. 

 

“You're not dead weight,” he said, quietly. “You’re… fuck. I’m sorry.”

 

Grif stared at the ground, unable to look up even as he heard Simmons’ tentative footsteps.

 

“I’m sorry,” Simmons repeated, voice smoother this time. “I mean it, I… I won't make excuses. I just thought if we cleared our names and figured this out, maybe… maybe I could get you home. Home-home.” 

 

“Don’t pull that shit with me. You don’t want that.” Grif closed his eyes, then opened them, looking down at the seam where the concrete floor met the wall. “You’d be miserable. You want to run around the galaxy for the rest of your life until you get murdered. And that's… whatever. Go for it. I just can’t watch it happen anymore.”

 

Grif felt a gloved hand on his cheek, and as much as he wanted to lean into it, to accept the physicality, the familiar comfort, another part of him was repulsed and he recoiled, bringing up an arm to push the hand away as he stepped back.

 

“Don't,” He said, raspily, fully intending to finish the sentence, but couldn’t make it farther than that first commanding word.

 

Simmons was silent and Grif took a deep breath, pressing his hands to his eyes.

 

“I wish you would stop pretending you give a shit about me and just go,” His voice still came out hoarse.

 

“I don't think you want that,” Simmons replied, quietly. 

 

“You don't know that.” Grif huffed out a joyless half-laugh, taking his hands away from his face and meeting Simmons’s eyes. “I told you I was done. Why did you come back here?”

 

“I… I thought - ” 

 

Grif watched Simmons struggle for words, eyes locked on his, until Simmons looked away and fell silent under his dead-eyed stare. 

 

“You thought what.” Grif murmured, not skipping a beat as Simmons’s eyes fixed on his own. “You thought you’d ride in like some big hero in your fucking spaceship and save me from myself, and everything would be fine again?” 

 

Simmons looked lost, standing there helplessly as Grif waited for some response and, hearing none, sighed, turned, and picked up his helmet from the table. “I… Your stuff‘s still in the bedroom. Sleep there if you want. I don’t care.”

 

Simmons said nothing, and Grif took a moment to steady himself, gloved fingertips pressing into the familiar dents and grooves of his helmet, then left, back into the base, back up to the bedroom he’d moved into when sleeping in their old one proved to be more than he could take. Only when he was back in that room, dark and sparse, did he let his shoulders drop, slumping to sit on the bed with his face in his hands. 


	2. how things were

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The apology, well-intentioned but paper-thin, hit Grif and he felt the ire go out of him like the floor had been pulled out beneath it. He felt hollow, and angry, and tired of being angry, and tired of being tired, and wanted to be doing anything besides being here on this beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone. i was completely overwhelmed by your support for chapter one, and i hope this one is a suitable follow-up! thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading. writing this is important to me for a lot of reasons, and i'm glad it's resonating with you, too.

That first night passed in silence, with Grif trying his hardest to sleep and failing. The next morning he got up early and headed out to find the wrecked ship, only partially to make sure he avoided any sight of Simmons. He didn’t have any delusions about fixing it or any real desire to salvage anything. He just needed to see the thing, to see that it was there, and crashed. That Simmons was telling the truth. It didn’t take long to find it. The field where Simmons had made his landing was gouged deep, the drag of hot metal through dark earth leaving a path of charred, sundered ground. The smell of burning lingered, but Grif did not.

 

When he returned, Grif heard but didn’t see Simmons cursing in the kitchen, water sloshing and plastic dragging across the concrete floor - no doubt he was wrestling with the little hand-crank washer they kept in the base, as he had so many times before. For someone so mechanically minded, he never really got the hang of the thing. Something about seeing the wreck of the ship and hearing Simmons put in the effort to wash something in the shitty little machine put a pit in Grif’s stomach. Simmons was here, and here for good, for the immediate future.

 

The door to their old room stayed half-open and untouched after that first night. Apparently, Simmons had taken his things and moved elsewhere. Grif wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse. Simmons instead moved into Carolina’s room, which… made sense. It was certainly the most empty of the bunch that still had a bed. If it didn’t make him so sick, he might have thought that it was a waste their mattress - _the_ mattress, he corrected himself - an actual bonafide real-deal mattress, the first one either of them had slept on in years - was going unused, but y’know. Fuck the bed, and fuck that. He couldn’t take the sight of it anymore, no matter how soft it was.

 

They operated around each other with surprising efficiency. Grif did everything he needed to in the base early, while he knew Simmons was still asleep, then left - to the forest to forage, sometimes, but more often just to go anywhere Simmons wouldn’t be. There were indications that Simmons was there, of course - noises in the hall, things moving in the kitchen, quiet TV chatter from Simmons’s room late at night: the holo-reruns of Simmons’s favorite old shows. Grif would occasionally catch sight of Simmons through a half-closed door: all long limbs in his black undersuit, or just boxers and a t-shirt like a fucking retiree (ha). Every time it happened it made a pit drop in his stomach and he hurried away as quietly as he could. If Simmons noticed, he gave no indication, and to his credit, he didn’t try to open up any new dialogues. All the better, Grif told himself one night after such a sighting, his chest so tight it almost hurt.

 

The days passed like that, a general tension hanging in the air that Grif did his best to swallow, quiet anger buzzing in the back of his mind. He had his routine, and Simmons had his own, until that rhythm was abruptly, albeit quietly, interrupted.

 

Grif was up early and there was no indication that Simmons was awake, as usual, but as he came down into the kitchen, he froze - greeted by the sight of Simmons, slumped over the table, face tucked snugly into his one folded arm. He was shirtless, his pale back bared to Grif, who for his part stood, paralyzed, watching the scarred and freckled skin rise and fall in the _click-2-3-4-5-6-hisssss_ of the sleep cycle of Simmons’s mechanical lungs. On the table was his cyborg arm, detached from its socket and laid open, with its cables and wires and motors spread out in an order only Simmons understood. He still held a screwdriver loosely in his hand, a cold, half-finished cup of black coffee sitting just within his reach across the table. He wouldn’t have had room to work on the arm in his bedroom, Grif thought, absently, as his mind processed other things. He had to come down here.

 

Grif shifted, starting to move for the door, but his metal boot caught and slid across the concrete with a loud scrape. He winced, but quickly froze again as Simmons started and began to sit up. The muffled _click_ of Simmons’s lungs snapping off of their sleep phase confirmed he was awake, and after a moment’s panic Grif started to walk as quickly and steadily as he could around the table and out the door. Whether Simmons was awake enough to process he had been there or not he had no idea and he didn’t intend to stick around and find out.

 

He made it as far as the beach outside before he sat down hard, shaking, and ran his hands over his face. The sight - Simmons like that, just like that - was so familiar, so achingly familiar, and so associated with fondness before all this _bullshit_. He’d seen Simmons like that so many times over the years, even as soon as those first few months after their operations, and all the times that Grif wasn’t right there with him to help he’d woken Simmons up, or tried to, anyway, convinced him to leave his arm and go to an actual bed for the few remaining hours they had to sleep. Now, though, he just felt sick as he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, trying to stop his heart from racing.

 

The crunch of pebbles on the beach made his chest tighten more and he tried to make his breathing even, lowering his hands and digging his fingertips into the edge of the armor plates on his thighs, keeping his eyes down and trying to force himself calm as Simmons sat next to him.

 

Simmons didn’t say anything, and neither did Grif. He couldn’t… un-tense, he couldn’t make himself, sitting there frozen with muscles taught like a deer in the headlights.

 

He heard the rocks shift again at his side and glanced down to see Simmons’s fingers close around a smooth, thin rock. He watched sidelong as Simmons lifted it, rubbing it with his thumb. He had left his metal arm behind on the table, still naked to the waist in the relatively warm morning, although he’d pulled a blanket around his shoulders. From the glance Grif dared to take at his face, he saw Simmons had dispensed completely with the tie in his hair, the whole unruly mass of it drawn over one shoulder and tucked behind his ear on the side facing Grif.

 

Apparently emboldened by the rock he’d picked up, Simmons spoke, haltingly, and Grif’s eyes snapped back downwards.

 

“If you want me to go, I get it.” His voice was quiet, hesitating, almost raspy from sleep. “I just… I saw you come out here, and...”

 

Grif kept his eyes down, staring off to one side. He wasn’t sure he could have said anything if he wanted to.

 

Simmons sighed, swallowed. Grif saw him shift out of the corner of his eye.

 

“You seemed… I… I don’t know. I wanted to come out here too, I guess? I don’t really have a good reason.”

 

Grif kept his eyes forward, but still saw Simmons glance at him, almost hopeful - but then Simmons looked forward again, letting his elbow rest on his raised knee as he fiddled with his rock.

 

He hadn’t shaved since he arrived, Grif noticed, and it was the most scruff he’d seen on Simmons since they crashed on Chorus. The dark circles under his eyes were as prominent as ever, the hollows of his cheeks beneath those sharp cheekbones more pronounced in the grey light. Handsome, for an asshole. A spindly, stupid asshole.

 

“I… I know you don’t want to hear it, but - ”

 

“You’re right,” Grif muttered, almost spat, the anger and fear and venom bubbling over into those two words and Simmons stopped speaking, holding the rock tight in his fist.

 

They sat unmoving for a few more moments before Simmons stood, tossing the rock into the water with a soft splash, and walked back into the base.

 

The next time Grif saw Simmons, his arm was reassembled and he was sitting at the table again, reading something on his datapad, and rather than dodging the kitchen altogether as he had for the past few days Grif gathered himself enough to just walk through. He felt Simmons’ eyes on him but kept himself together, didn’t falter, and made it through. Out of sight, he paused, took a second to breathe. Baby steps.

 

Now, instead of silence and avoidance, it became simply silence - when they did cross paths, it was tense, but not chest-crushingly so - at least, not for Grif. They existed, tentative but aware of each other, and if they happened to be in a space at the same time it almost felt like a truce. The hair no longer raised on the back of his neck, his heart didn’t pound anymore, and eventually, he stopped resenting the fact that he could be calm in Simmons’ presence.

 

It was one of those mornings something like a week and a half later, where they were existing at the same time, sitting at opposite ends of the kitchen table, that Simmons spoke again.

 

“Do you want me to, um. Do you want me to make more coffee?”

 

Grif glanced up, brows furrowing as he examined Simmons’s face. “I don’t drink coffee.”

 

Simmons paused, and Grif looked back down.

 

“I - I know, but… okay.” He said. He took a few moments before he spoke again, rolling the bottom of his mug on the table between his hands.

 

“I just thought… when I made it for the first time, after I got here. There were grounds in the machine. Fresh ones. I thought maybe you started drinking it or something.” Simmons set the mug down, glancing up at Grif. “That’s why I asked.”

 

Grif exhaled, then pushed himself up to stand. There wasn’t anybody else who could have made it, literally no other possibility - but Grif wasn’t about to admit he’d been doing it because he missed the smell.

 

Simmons made a noise, barely a syllable, just the beginnings of a word in his throat. Grif’s eyes snapped to his face and his jaw tightened. Simmons was looking back at him, something like realization behind his eyes, lips slightly parted as though he was on the verge of speaking, of actually saying something. Grif lifted his makeshift pack from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder and striding out of the base before Simmons could say a word.

 

He didn’t come back until late, but when he did, the downstairs lights were still on. Simmons was still up, probably working on his arm, or leg, doing… whatever it was he did now. Grif stared at the yellow light streaming in through unshuttered windows, stomach tying itself into knots. He decided against going inside.

 

Grif settled himself on the beach, watching the light from the base reflect, brassy and artificial, on the dark waves. It was too late to wander too far away from base, but he’d be fine here until Simmons went to bed or… something.

 

Funny. All the pieces to make a _real_ beach were here, just not right. The lake was too small, the rocks too big. Grif sighed, slowly, wincing as he drew his legs slightly up, digging his heels into the pebbles to keep them there and resting his elbows on his knees as he stared out over the water, listening to the tiny waves lap at the tiny rocks.

 

It was quiet enough until he heard the sound of footsteps. This time, he didn’t tense up. This time, he just kept his eyes forward, face blank, an uncertain emotion clenching tight around his chest.

 

Simmons sat slowly, cross-legged, just far enough away as to be unobtrusive. Grif did his best to not react at first, swallowing hard.

 

“What do you want, Simmons?” Grif asked, after a few minutes of silence.

 

Simmons looked at him, lips slightly parted, then looked away as he took a moment more to respond, rubbing the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other.

 

“Look, Grif, we - I - ” He faltered, voice low, and continued. “I don’t… want to keep living like this.”

 

“That’s tough.” Grif didn’t bother to keep the bitterness from his voice. “ _I_ didn’t want to do this to begin with. Maybe, if you didn’t want to do this? Not crashing your ship might have been a better plan.”

 

A few months ago Simmons would have given him a look for the sarcasm, maybe shot something back, but now he just exhaled, running a hand up into his hair. “I just wanted to - I _want_ to - ”

 

Grif listened to him struggle, glancing in his direction.

 

“I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and, I fucked up. I hurt you.” Simmons said. Grif looked at him, brows furrowing slightly.  “I should have said something, I should have asked if you were okay, I. I should have called Tucker out. I… I don’t know. I won’t make excuses for myself, but I’m sorry.”

 

The apology, well-intentioned but paper-thin, hit Grif and he felt the ire go out of him like the floor had been pulled out beneath it. He felt hollow, and angry, and tired of being angry, and tired of being tired, and wanted to be doing anything besides being here on this beach.

 

Simmons didn’t notice Grif’s internal collapse, and continued, apparently emboldened by his silence. “I want to try, I - I want to… I want to get back to before that, I want to get back to… to how things were. How - how _we_ were.”

 

Grif stared blankly at the rocks directly in front of him, now unable to feel much but the knot in his guts.

 

“You don’t get it.” He said, finally, quietly. “Fuck, Simmons.”

 

Simmons stared at him, confused and concerned, picking at the sleeve of his hoodie.

 

“Yeah, you did hurt me.” Grif began, jaw tight. “But. It’s been years, and you… you always have. It never stopped. I told myself, I - I don’t know. In the beginning, I told myself you didn’t really mean it. Fucking… Making jokes about me in front of everyone we know. Saying you’d _kill_ me if Sarge asked. Didn’t matter what we did, or, um. Who I was to you. Eventually, I started thinking I must have really been as bad as everybody thought if you were saying that shit, too.”

 

Simmons looked pained, opened his mouth to speak, but Grif continued.

 

“And, uh… on Chorus, you stopped, which was good, but you still wouldn’t - ” Another hard swallow, and he pressed forward. “Wouldn’t, um. Wouldn’t tell anybody. About… us. Not that I needed you to, not that people didn’t know, because they did. _Everyone_ did.”

 

He took a shaky breath. “And, even though everybody _knew_ , you never… you never said anything. I just never felt like you were proud to be with me. You never even said you liked me unless we were alone, and you were always - _always_ \- in a hurry to get back to whatever else after you were… done. With me.”

 

His throat tightened at those words and he had to pause, swallowing hard, and force himself steady. “It felt like you wished people didn’t know. And, that. That was hard. But it was better than being made - made fun of, so I kept thinking, when this is over, when we - when we _leave_ , when we - go somewhere normal, it’s gonna be different.”

 

“Grif,” Simmons started, sounding so genuinely shocked, so _concerned_ that Grif barely managed to keep himself from choking up.

 

“And _then_ , we all came here, and, it… it just got worse. It was like Blood Gulch all over again. The same shit, the… you hadn’t called me a fatass in two years, and suddenly, back here, it was all the same. And _you_ … you were exactly the same.” Grif shook his head, exhaling hard. “I don’t know why I thought you’d be different. Why anything would be different. I had 15 years of evidence, and I just...”

 

Grif broke off, running a hand down over his face and pushed it over his cheek to rest on the back of his neck.

 

“I… hoped. So to answer your question, I don’t… I don’t know.” Grif said, carefully, voice croaking as his throat stung. “I wish things were fine, and I could say ‘yes, I _do_ want to try again’, but they aren’t, and I can’t, and I’m not gonna pretend ‘how things were’ is anything that I want anymore.”

 

Grif glanced at Simmons, and tried to ignore the fact that seeing tears in Simmons’s eyes still felt like a punch in the gut. Grif stood, slowly, keenly aware of every reconstructed joint, every ill-fitting piece in his body, and walked back to the base.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://puu.sh/wgykS/d40461253e.png 
> 
> at one point editing, this happened. i couldn't stop my hands. it made me laugh, so i thought i'd share.


End file.
